“She’s gonna build on the trophy wife image.” Ro’I said, looking ahead at what was in store for him. Mitchell just listened, making notes in his head. “She’s going to turn that foundation into a skyscraper. By the time she’s done, everyone will think that she was the author while I was just the writer. See, there’s a subtle difference between the two that most people miss.” He said, trying to explain away the confusion on his friend’s face. “An author creates the story. They engineer it.”

“Don’t writers do the same thing?”

“No. Their title tells the tale. They just write. They put down on paper the words of someone else.”

“Everyone knows these stories are yours.”

“Everyone knows I take old stories and breathe new life into them.”

“Did she give you any ideas?”

I wanted to warn Ro’I that there was a spy in his camp, but Mycah’s rule against interference made that impossible. We knew that Mitchell Henderson – Roana’s lifelong friend and confidant – would run back to his best friend’s wife and tell her all the things Roana had said in confidence.

“I never took any of her ideas seriously.” Ro’I admitted. “They were just so…amateurish.”

“You used some of them, though.”

“I honestly don’t remember. I mean, maybe. In the beginning. She was very active in my life and in my work in the early years. But then we just drifted apart.” Roana signaled the barkeep of his desire for a refill then said, “Everyone in my life is in my books, in some way. Even you.” That got Mitchell’s attention.

“What do you mean?” He asked, wanting specifics he could take back to his lover.

“Seriously, Mitch? You’ve never noticed? Have you ever read any of my books?”

“You know I don’t read, brother! C’mon! No offense, or anything.” He said, joking away Roana’s inquisition.

“Well…, the author laughed, “if you had, you would see yourself in some of my characters. The things they do and say, the scenes they find themselves in. It’s all plagiarized from real life. Heel, I’ll probably use my divorce in the next book!”

“And her?”

“Yeah, of course. You’re all just tools in the workshop of my mind.”

We had seen all we needed to see, I guess, because Mycah’s wrist turned and so did the scene in front of us. Mitchell Henderson disappeared, along with the bar where he and Roana sat. The great author remained – seemingly frozen – as his own kitchen table replaced the bar. The drink in his hand became a handful of pictures that bent under his tight grip. When I looked closely at them, I saw Roana’s wife and his best friend deep in the throws of passion. Moment after moment, as the birds chirped outside his window and the clock on his wall tick-tocked softly, Roana Ignah did not move. The computer that motivated him had “seen a two” as computer enthusiasts would say – referring to the binary nature of computer processing where the world was made up of ones and zeroes. A “two” did not exist in a computer’s world, and any machine that saw one would simply stop functioning, frozen in its misunderstanding. The images on those stiff pieces of paper were beyond Roana’s comprehension. He could not make sense of them, though all of his circuitry was dedicated to that task.

“It’s killing him, Mycah!” I said, feeling the pain that those images printed on his heart. “We could have stopped it, but you wouldn’t let us!” My bubble was punctured by the needles that tattooed this day in Roana Ignah’s memory. He was frozen, but I wasn’t. I moved for him. While he was desperately trying to figure out what went wrong, and who was to blame, I had already worked those things out in my own mind. “You did this to him!” I cried, turning on Mycah. “This is your fault!”

My Guardian Angel remained passive while I wondered if “Guardian” or even “Angel” were accurate descriptors for him. He said nothing as I flung other – less savory - descriptors his way. He allowed me to rant and rave for ten minutes, and still, Roana Ignah did not move. When he did, Mycah pointed it out, directing me to turn my focus back to the story I was here to watch.

“It’s my fault!” The Great Author said, sounding very much – in that moment – like Wolo Mank when he took the weight of his broken leg on his own shoulders.

“It’s not your fault!” I cried, knowing that Mycah was ultimately responsible.

“I drove them to it.” Roana said, as if he were arguing with me. “I didn’t love her, and I didn’t see the love she had for him…or he had for her. I only saw her on my arm – my trophy for winning the race to fame and fortune. It’s all true. Everything they accuse me of in their hearts. I’m guilty of it all.”

His word was the last word, because Mycah took me away before I could summon any more arguments. But though I didn’t get to say it, I knew in my heart that Roana Ignah was innocent of all of his perceived crimes.